


Going Soft

by Val_Creative



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Romance, Science Fiction, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:18:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is not unfamiliar for the Doctor to wake up naked and to be somewhat fuzzy on the details. /Post-The Big Bang. Spoilers. Fluff. Standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Soft

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It is not… _unfamiliar_ … for the Doctor to wake up naked and to be somewhat fuzzy on the details.

Nor is it unfamiliar for him to wake up naked with _humans surrounding him_. But to wake up naked surrounded by humans who he is happening to be traveling with and is inescapably fond of… is… _not so familiar_.

As the Doctor lifts himself from a warm cocoon of bed— _what_ bed in the TARDIS, he isn't all too sure yet—he is greeted by the low, melodic hum of his time machine. He murmurs a loving greeting back to her, rubbing his groggy eyes, and blindly searches for an article of clothing to pull on. His long, Time Lord fingers find purchase with a shabby, woolen robe hanging off a knob of the bedpost.

His long, lean body has phantom aches the Doctor knows he has encountered before, and maybe more than once, and smells like clinging, harsh sweat... and _sex_. The room smells like sex. _Loads_ of sex. Human sex. Human sex that he was a part of. By the time the Doctor has his arms through the robe, he recalls his memories of the previous night clearly, and aims to leave the room right away—only to be halted by an invisible force snatching onto the skirt of his wool robe.

"Where do you think you are going, buster?" His red-haired companion smiles hazily as she speaks, her mocha-colored sheet slipping free from the folds of the exposed glory that is her breasts.

His stormy eyes linger there— _too long or too fleeting it doesn't matter_ — before the Doctor says evenly, jerking the back of his robe from her impatient grasp, and securing the sashes of his robe to himself, "Breakfast, Pond. The most important meal of the day. Ask Rory what he would like."

"What about me? Aren't you going to ask what I want?"

"I know what you want. You are Scottish. I'll fry something." At the cultural jib, Amy makes a somewhat unpleasant face at him before smacking a pile of blankets across the mattress.

"Oi, wake up, you useless lump." At this, the blankets groan and shift away as she repeats the gesture, a little bit harder, "I said wake up. The Doctor wants to know what you want for breakfast."

" _Why_?" Rory pokes his tousled head out, muttering.

"He's cooking. Why else?"

"No matter," the Doctor interrupts any further bickering, pirouetting for the corridor, "I'll warrant that there is something edible in the kitchen." He turns back at the last moment, pinning a serious expression on his male companion. " _Oh_... By the way, Rory, I think you might want to deal with your… morning... situation."

The human man follows the line of the Doctor's pointed gaze on him and then gulps mortified, desperately crossing his legs to hide the stiff tent at his waist. "It was poking me earlier," the Doctor admits gracelessly, "and not that I don't mind it considering our… _unique_ living arrangement… but I thought you might want to take care of it before it becomes… an embarrassing predicament."

The bare-chested Amy smirks, addressing the Time Lord, "Why didn't you _take care_ of it?"

"Bet you'd love that…," Rory says grumpily, flushing with bright humiliation, and burying himself under the blankets in hopes of hiding that same humiliation from his lovers.

When she opens her mouth—probably to agree with him—the Doctor cut in with an "I'll leave it to you, Pond." He claps his hands promptly. "Right. I'll see you both downstairs for your breakfast. Tootles!" When he rushes out, the Doctor slows briefly, running a hand over his contorting face and mumbling disturbed and out loud to no one particular, "… _Never let me say that word again_."

 

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The Doctor is not a domestic sort of being. Not in the least. He knows better than to involve himself in those sorts of affairs…

" _Amy_ —!"

But… the Doctor understands that he can stand the role… as long as the others with him are happy…

Another pathetic wail from the hallway. To follow it, a flash of ivory, lightly freckled skin and glossy red hair. An extremely naked and slim limbed woman makes her presence known in the TARDIS's block kitchen. Unashamed, she tumbles down cozily on a buttercream-colored stool and stares at him in a frilled apron embroidered with alien language and squeezes her mouth closed to keep from laughing.

A fully clothed Rory emerges into the room. Bunched up in his hands is her nightie.

"For god's sake, Amy," he pants, trying in vain to cover her up with the striped material as she shrugs him off.

"I'll put it on if you'll shut it," Amy says blandly, standing to wriggle it over her head.

The cotton material does not, however, shield the Doctor's eye from the dark triangle of her crouch or her brownish nipples. He is also vaguely disappointed to see that in Rory's rush he had not sprinted in gloriously naked as well. Rory does not bother to find a shirt or vest that covers his neck. Among the bruising love-bites on his supple neck, the Time Lord knows exactly where his marks are.

"Doctor, why are you smiling?" Rory asks as his eyebrows furrow curiously.

"Was I?," he chuckles, passing the human man to retrieve his sonic screwdriver, touching the side of Rory's now-blushing face gently, "My apologies then. Did the morning situation get sorted?"

Amy said, pulling on a disappointed look, "Rather quickly."

A half-formed whine of grievance from her husband.

"Good news then." The Doctor untied his apron, handing his companions their plates of eggs and biscuits as well as their drinks. "Is anyone allergic to orange juice? I hope not. I used it in everything."

"I'm only allergic to bananas," Rory states before taking a mouthful of the juice.

Amy clears her throat, shoving away her steaming plateful across the counter-top nearby. "I'm actually all that not hungry for this breakfast, Doctor," she says. He glances at her intrigued.

"...Then what are you hungry for exactly?"

He receives his answer in the depths of her blazing hazel-green eyes. He starts to grin as she does. He revels in how child-like Amy Pond seemed in her wants; so immediate, clinging, bold, and eager. He cup her hand, fingers lacing and timid, and Amy turns gleefully to her husband, "Are you coming with, Rory?"

"What's going on...?" Rory asks bewildered, some bits of scrambled egg hanging to his upper lip.

As the young woman tugs him out of his chair, the Doctor gave him a mocking, fearful look. "I'm afraid, Rory, we're all going to be facing a morning situation that needs desperate sorting out…"

"…Like now," Amy finishes, shoving her husband through the entrance of a spare bedroom.

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The Doctor is an old man who has seen too much and thinks sometimes it has amounted to too little.

— _he presses a kiss to the purplish love-bite on Rory's neck that is his, amused to feel the man shiver; when Rory sheathes himself into him, it jerkily moves his hips against Amy's and they both gasp;_

A mysterious force to be reckoned with.

— _she croons when his arms circle her;_ _her body undulates,_ _engulfing him into her; he can taste what is the last fragments of his slipping control when her coppery-red hair falls over her shoulder;_

A lonely soul.

_—"Doctor," is spoken irresistibly into the hollow behind his ear, deliriously by Rory; a heat pooling in his stomach, tugging at his hearts; she hooks his shoulders, scrambling for something solid, and touches her perspiring face to the front of his heaving chest, reaching shakily to hold tightly to Rory's hand;_

And he has gone soft for his human companions. Completely.

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"…So very sore tomorrow," Amy moans childishly, rolling over onto her side, half obscured by the sheets and her wavy red hair. She props an elbow up and observes her boys on her right with a glint of pride. "And to think," she addresses the silent Doctor, "you thought we'd stay in Leadworth with our boring monogamous marriage—"

Rory makes an offended sound and she affectionately messes his hair, bringing a smile to the Doctor's face. "—and your sex life practically nonexistent, thanks to us, everyone is happy."

The Doctor makes a thoughtful noise.

"I suppose there is some truth in that..." He says, amused by their attentive glances when he does, "...So what do you lot think about gallivanting through the Glasson Minor? There is a neutron star set to implode on itself and the view can be quite rather captivating to watch..."

Rory shrugs, nodding at Amy who beams.

"Well, what are you waiting for, Doctor? That star isn't going watch _itself_..."

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End file.
